I look around my home, a place that daily embraces me with comfortable familiarity, shelters me in safety, and surrounds me with objects that are priceless memorials to other places, times, and people. How is it possible, when one has lived a long and full life, to pick just one?
Perhaps, I’d choose the dainty gold ring nestled safely in my jewelry box, a gift from my favorite Grandma. The pearl, produced by a clam irritated by a grain of sand, was discovered by my favorite Grandpa, who had it set in that ring as a gift for his wife- his companion for over 50 years. I remember summers with them in northern Wisconsin, fishing on the same river that yielded the pearl. The long, lazy, hot summer days were filled with picking wild strawberries, harvesting hazelnuts, and feeding chickadees and chipmunks out of our hands. The water pump in the sink, the outhouse by the garden, target practice with the 22, all memories of a gentler, quieter time. What they didn’t have in terms of wealth, they made up for in their unconditional love- a life lesson for me that money isn’t necessary for happiness.
But, then, there’s that beautiful photo in our bedroom of the aerial lift bridge from my hometown, made even more beautiful by the detailed wooden frame my Dad made. He did woodworking, a hobby he picked up to support a recovering alcoholic friend because, well, that’s just the kind of things my father did. He’d escape to his basement shop, sawdust and wood everywhere, projects big and smal, like the wooden clock in my office, with hour dots that look like M & Ms, or my recipe and sewing boxes. The power tools, one which precipitated a drive to the emergency room for stitches, are now housed in my brother’s shop, passed down to the next generation.
Then, there’s the parade of carved animals, rhino, warthog, elephant, zebra, wildebeest, giraffe, water buffalo, marching across a high ledge, reminding me of fifteen years spent living in Kenya. Game safaris across the savannah, the excitement of spotting a leopard sleeping in a thorn tree, the snort of hippos swinging their tails and flinging feces everywhere. There’s the Madagascar chest, with its secret hiding place, a gift from our church friends, now sitting on our side table. How could I forget Nairobi, the traffic, the colors, sounds, and smells (my brother, visiting, said he’s like to make a “scratch and sniff” book of the city). I’m remembering the birth of our first and last-born children in a foreign country where children were adored by everyone; they became natural ice breakers. I’m remembering our home, with its barred windows and doors, the locked grate at the top of the stairs to protect us while we slept…just in case. We celebrated anniversaries at the Kentmere Club, with huge fireplaces and meals served in the candlelit dining room, a throwback to the colonial era. There’s the original watercolor by a friend and colleague, hanging in our living room, of my favorite mama at the basket stall in the market. A past remembered, Kenyan friends and family greatly missed even after decades.
The “elephant within an elephant” carvings (how do they even do that?) and the hand-embroidered golden crested crane art piece remind me of my recent stay in India. So much traffic: ox carts, motorcycles, buses, trucks, bicycles, auto-rickshaws, cows everywhere. So many people, such vibrant colors, a life so fascinatingly different from anywhere I’ve ever been. I purchased metal toe rings, worn by women after marriage, and had them fitted by a metalsmith in a tiny hole-in-the-wall shop, only to have them removed shortly after because my toes just couldn’t seem to adjust; the rings, too, are in my jewelry box. I cherish the memories of days spent in school, reading stories and interacting with children who called me Connie Aunty. My sari, a special gift from the teachers at that school, is now just a large piece of beautiful fabric folded away in a drawer, but I remember the friend who tied it before the school event where everyone wore matching ones. Bargaining with the old banana vendor, communicating mostly with laugher, the universal language. Another life across the world; I dearly miss that life and my Indian friends and family.
We have an art gallery in my home with pieces from my favorite “artists”. The framed abstract woodblock print that Brian created. Well, actually, it was the practice paper he randomly rolled ink over, not even the final print, but I loved the colors. I remember taking it down to the Kenyan framer, who handled it like a priceless work of art, making Brian sign it in the corner, as every artist must. The small toucan cross-stitched piece produced lovingly by Jason and the wooden jewelry box he carefully crafted and finished for his Mom. And Stacie’s woodblock print of a cat, or maybe a leopard or weasel, framed and hanging on the wall by Jason’s toucan. I have a hall of fame, too: photos of children, parents, grandchildren, sisters, brothers, nieces, nephews, in-laws. And then there’s my yearly family photo calendar, created annually (since at least 1998) with photos taken by everyone and saved to a family Google Photos folder. It’s probably the only calendar in the world that begins in February because… I just can’t get it finished any earlier. A lifetime of events and memories captured and hanging on the wall and safely stored in my heart.
So, how can I choose one, just one single, solitary memorial? I can’t.
— cmshingle
Perhaps, I’d choose the dainty gold ring nestled safely in my jewelry box, a gift from my favorite Grandma. The pearl, produced by a clam irritated by a grain of sand, was discovered by my favorite Grandpa, who had it set in that ring as a gift for his wife- his companion for over 50 years. I remember summers with them in northern Wisconsin, fishing on the same river that yielded the pearl. The long, lazy, hot summer days were filled with picking wild strawberries, harvesting hazelnuts, and feeding chickadees and chipmunks out of our hands. The water pump in the sink, the outhouse by the garden, target practice with the 22, all memories of a gentler, quieter time. What they didn’t have in terms of wealth, they made up for in their unconditional love- a life lesson for me that money isn’t necessary for happiness.
But, then, there’s that beautiful photo in our bedroom of the aerial lift bridge from my hometown, made even more beautiful by the detailed wooden frame my Dad made. He did woodworking, a hobby he picked up to support a recovering alcoholic friend because, well, that’s just the kind of things my father did. He’d escape to his basement shop, sawdust and wood everywhere, projects big and smal, like the wooden clock in my office, with hour dots that look like M & Ms, or my recipe and sewing boxes. The power tools, one which precipitated a drive to the emergency room for stitches, are now housed in my brother’s shop, passed down to the next generation.
Then, there’s the parade of carved animals, rhino, warthog, elephant, zebra, wildebeest, giraffe, water buffalo, marching across a high ledge, reminding me of fifteen years spent living in Kenya. Game safaris across the savannah, the excitement of spotting a leopard sleeping in a thorn tree, the snort of hippos swinging their tails and flinging feces everywhere. There’s the Madagascar chest, with its secret hiding place, a gift from our church friends, now sitting on our side table. How could I forget Nairobi, the traffic, the colors, sounds, and smells (my brother, visiting, said he’s like to make a “scratch and sniff” book of the city). I’m remembering the birth of our first and last-born children in a foreign country where children were adored by everyone; they became natural ice breakers. I’m remembering our home, with its barred windows and doors, the locked grate at the top of the stairs to protect us while we slept…just in case. We celebrated anniversaries at the Kentmere Club, with huge fireplaces and meals served in the candlelit dining room, a throwback to the colonial era. There’s the original watercolor by a friend and colleague, hanging in our living room, of my favorite mama at the basket stall in the market. A past remembered, Kenyan friends and family greatly missed even after decades.
The “elephant within an elephant” carvings (how do they even do that?) and the hand-embroidered golden crested crane art piece remind me of my recent stay in India. So much traffic: ox carts, motorcycles, buses, trucks, bicycles, auto-rickshaws, cows everywhere. So many people, such vibrant colors, a life so fascinatingly different from anywhere I’ve ever been. I purchased metal toe rings, worn by women after marriage, and had them fitted by a metalsmith in a tiny hole-in-the-wall shop, only to have them removed shortly after because my toes just couldn’t seem to adjust; the rings, too, are in my jewelry box. I cherish the memories of days spent in school, reading stories and interacting with children who called me Connie Aunty. My sari, a special gift from the teachers at that school, is now just a large piece of beautiful fabric folded away in a drawer, but I remember the friend who tied it before the school event where everyone wore matching ones. Bargaining with the old banana vendor, communicating mostly with laugher, the universal language. Another life across the world; I dearly miss that life and my Indian friends and family.
We have an art gallery in my home with pieces from my favorite “artists”. The framed abstract woodblock print that Brian created. Well, actually, it was the practice paper he randomly rolled ink over, not even the final print, but I loved the colors. I remember taking it down to the Kenyan framer, who handled it like a priceless work of art, making Brian sign it in the corner, as every artist must. The small toucan cross-stitched piece produced lovingly by Jason and the wooden jewelry box he carefully crafted and finished for his Mom. And Stacie’s woodblock print of a cat, or maybe a leopard or weasel, framed and hanging on the wall by Jason’s toucan. I have a hall of fame, too: photos of children, parents, grandchildren, sisters, brothers, nieces, nephews, in-laws. And then there’s my yearly family photo calendar, created annually (since at least 1998) with photos taken by everyone and saved to a family Google Photos folder. It’s probably the only calendar in the world that begins in February because… I just can’t get it finished any earlier. A lifetime of events and memories captured and hanging on the wall and safely stored in my heart.
So, how can I choose one, just one single, solitary memorial? I can’t.
— cmshingle
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